


All There Is To Know

by ice_hot_13



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaun finds knowledge useless, because Desmond can do so much more. Leonardo can read Ezio fluently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All There Is To Know

"Who won the War of the Roses?"

"House of Lancaster."

"Fine. How many nations were in the first Olympcis?"

"Fourteen."

"How many US senators?"

"A hundred."

"How many congressmen?"

"Four hundred and thirty five."

" _Damn_ it!" Desmond snaps the book he'd been flipping through shut. "Do you know  _everything?"_  
"Yeah." Shaun smirks, and there's a responding growl from over by the couch. "Just give up, won't you? There's nothing you know that I don't." Desmond huffs out a breath at this and Shaun hears him flop back on the couch. "Besides, you don't know any of this, technically. You're just looking it up."

"I hate you, you know that?"

"Yeah," Shaun focuses his attention on the computer screen, determined not to let his mind wander, "I know." It's stupid, the way those words stab through him. "Don't you have something better to do? We both know you're never going to find anything I don't know."

"I might..." Desmond mutters, and Shaun can hear the pages flipping again. He'd found some history book in the living room and has been testing Shaun ever since. Shaun's not sure Desmond realizes the book belongs to him, so of course he's going to know what's in it. Besides this, Shaun's certainly read a lot more than Desmond has. He can't help but be arrogant and snarky because of this, even though it's useless; Desmond might not know everything but he can surely put anything into practice. Shaun could wax poetic about the theory of assassination, but Desmond is the one who could put it all into fluid motion, finer points of strategy be damned. Point is, Shaun would have words and Desmond would have success.

Knowledge feels like nothing without application, and this makes Shaun feel like he's as useless as everything he knows.

"When did the War of 1812 begin?" Desmond calls over.

"June eighteenth. 1812." Shaun takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose, "you must have something better to do." He always says this, sends Desmond away, and he knows why he does it. He even knows the proper defiintion of it, knows the differences of societal consequences between cultures, and that it's derived from Middle English, and before that, Old French, and that in literature, it's symbolized by a white feather. None of this matters, of course.

Desmond would call it cowardice.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Leonardo can read Ezio easier than he can read anything else. Never mind the fact that he's been studying Latin all his life, that Italian is his mother tongue, that interpreting art is as effortless as if the works whisper something into his blood and transmit it through him; reading Ezio is easier. It's natural, innate, because he learned it without realizing he was learning anything at all. Leonardo had always wondered at people who sung praise for the expression available only through touch, and throughout the long, seemingly endless wait for Ezio to notice him, Leonardo scoffed at them.

Everything is different now. Everything has been different since his first rainy day in Venezia. Ezio had come into his workshop to hide from the rain, and from the guards hunting him down, and after a brief, passionless argument about a container of paint Ezio had broken, Leonardo had gone outside. He'd been fascinated by the rain, wanted only a closer look at the stormy sky, but Ezio had misinterpreted, though Leonardo had gone outside to sulk, away from him. Mortified at his own mistake, Ezio had followed, confessed without being asked that he never meant to hurt Leonardo, and while Leonardo tried to figure out what he was supposedly hurt about, Ezio had admitted that he was in love.

Since then, Leonardo loves rainy days. Ezio sometimes makes a point of finding him on these days, once showing up in at his workshop the middle of a mission in Firenze, just to wrap his arms around Leonardo and whisper  _I love you_ a thousand times.

Leonardo can read everything about Ezio.

Starting from the moment Ezio walks in, Leonardo knows something's wrong, and he knows just how terribly. Ezio doesn't slam through the door like he does when he feels like he's justified in being angry with the whole world; for so long after the death of his father and brothers, he slammed things and broke things and destroyed things, and it's only now that Leonardo realizes that was anger at the whole world. Those days still occur, but Leonardo now knows to still Ezio's hands and tell him he's allowed to cry from grief, that all it says about him is that he's lost so many of the people he loves the most.

Now, Ezio just slips into the workshop and comes up behind Leonardo, rests his chin on Leonardo's shoulder and says nothing.

"What's wrong?" Leonardo keeps his gaze on the painting before him, as if the whole of his attention wasn't with Ezio.

"Nothing," Ezio mumbles, yet another hint in a rapid succession. He's not going to sulk and snarl and declare the sin the world committed against him. He's going to convince himself nothing happened.

"You would think an assassin could do a proper job of lying," Leonardo muses aloud, turning in Ezio's arms and holding onto him. Leonardo is shorter than Ezio, and fit here like this, he loves being smaller. Ezio can wrap him up and give him somewhere to belong. Ezio has said he loves being taller, able to fit his whole world into his arms, hold Leonardo safe.

This language of their bodies, Leonardo knows every word.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The rain is the only sound in the room, light-fingered against the window panes until it turns into a downpour, like water is being heaved at the window in torrents, until it fades back to tapping again, just a light whisper to remind them it's there. This goes on for a while until Desmond's sudden shout breaks the silence yet again; Shaun barely looks up this time.

"What's statute law?" he calls over across the living room. Shaun looks over his shoulder; Desmond is sprawled on the floor with books open around him, still diligent in his efforts to beat Shaun. Shaun heaves a sigh.

"Law enacted by the legislature, Desmond." This makes Desmond groan and reach for another book. Shaun turns back to his computer screen, where he's researching a church in Firenze. Not that this matters, it never feels like it matters. His research helps the assassins, but they certainly could function just as efficiently without him.

A hand on Shaun's shoulder makes him jump, and suddenly Desmond is right behind him, leaning over his shoulder and reading the screen. This close, Shaun can smell his cologne and shampoo, and his hair brushes soft against Shaun's cheek as Desmond leans towards the screen to see.

"Hnnh. Church?" he says, and Shaun manages to nod, silent. "'S cool," Desmond sounds distracted, like he's not really here at all. He straightens, and Shaun sees he holds a book open in his other hand. "How many original colonies?"

"Thirteen," Shaun says automatically, and Desmond sighs like this isn't what he wanted to hear; it probably isn't. His hand slips off Shaun's shoulder.

"Damn." He flips through a few more pages, then flips it closed. "How's the entry thing going?"

"Fine." Shaun's fingers hover over the keys, "it'd be going better if I could actually work."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure." He doesn't leave, however, just stands there, one hand tugging at the strings from his hoodie. "I've told you that these entry things are useful, right?" he says abruptly. Shaun nods; he remembers that clearly. It's one of those timse when Desmond showed something like interest in him, gave him false hope.

"I think you mentioned it."

"Oh. Okay. Good." He's thinking about something else; Shaun wishes he knew exactly what. "You know what?" Desmond says suddenly, and Shaun looks up at him. "You  _don't_ know everything, and there  _is_ stuff I know that you don't."

He says this with so much intensity that it makes even less sense than it would normally. Shaun already knows there are things Desmond knows that he doesn't; that's obvious, because there's one thing that sums everything up. Desmond knows how to  _do_ things, how to  _use_ information, and Shaun just collects it, analyzes it, for people like Desmond, so it can become something real. Shaun may know a lot, but none of it's real until something happens to it, something like Desmond. Being useful, it's useless.

"So show me," Shaun says simply, because he doesn't want Desmond to know that difference between them. Desmond would take that information, would use it against Shaun. He doesn't need to know how ultimately superior he is, he already does so much to make it obvious without even knowing it. "What do you know that I don't?" For some reason, this makes Desmond blush a furious crimson, and he just shakes his head, as if Shaun can never hope to understand.

"It's not worth knowing," Desmond says before he walks away, and Shaun doesn't believe him. Nothing is worth knowing, but that only lasts until something is done with it. Even history is only useful when it's being acted upon, when learning it prevents repetition of mistakes, when it's used to explain the present.

For Desmond to know that Shaun fell in love with him would be worthless, unless he were to use it to understand that Shaun needs him to have worth. Even then it would still be pointless, because that's not even why Shaun loves him.

Then again, Shaun can't pinpoint why he does, either. It just goes to show that Desmond's wrong, that Shaun doesn't know everything. Mostly, he's just scared of what Desmond would do to that information.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Ezio's restless sleeping wakes Leonardo up at dawn, to the half rosy, half silver light spilling out from under the curtains. Beside him, Ezio lies awake, looking up at the ceiling, eyes dark with whatever he's thinking. "Ezio?" Leonardo whispers.

"Did I wake you up?" For some reason, there's a mournful look in those dark eyes, like waking Leonardo would be the worst offense. Leonardo shakes his head no quickly.

"What's wrong?" he tries again, but Ezio stays silent. "Caro mio, please." He curls in close against Ezio's side.

"It's stupid," Ezio breathes, shuts his eyes as Leonardo trails flickering fingertips across his jaw, "nothing."

"Something is bothering you," Leonardo says, and from the tilt of Ezio's frown, he knows this knowledge surprised the assassin. "I know you're trying to convince yourself it's not important, amore mio, but it's still bothering you, is it not?" Ezio draws in a slow breath, deep, and Leonardo knows Ezio's going to tell him.

"Carnevale," Ezio whispers, like this is something to be deeply ashamed of. "I lost. And I know, I  _know_ it was rigged and that I was supposed to win, but I  _lost."_ He lapses into silence, and he holds his breath until exhaling shakily with that tremble Leonardo knows. "I just- it's stupid, so stupid, it's not even that-"

"Please," Leonardo slips his hand to the small of Ezio's back, leans in to kiss his jaw, "I understand," he says, and it's like permission.

"I wanted to- to do something right, for once, something right and okay, not like- not like everything else I do. It was like- like when I was little, I always wanted to win,  _always…"_ he draws in a breath, "I wanted to do something normal, and I'd always wanted that."

There's more. Leonardo knows it in the quiver of Ezio's breath and the gaps between his words.

"When I was little, Federico won," Ezio says, and it's everything Leonardo has known since Ezio slipped into the workshop hours ago. It's the words to the agony Leonardo could feel. "I wanted to… to be like him. I haven't been able to, it's like… this was the last thing, this is what he said he knew I could do. And I couldn't."

It wasn't losing the game, it was losing Federico again. It was losing a childhood promise, more than a dream. It was almost having and losing.

Leonardo gathers Ezio in his arms and kisses him, and because he can hear everything Ezio doesn't say, he knows what to tell him, what Ezio wants to hear.

"Federico would have been proud of  _why_ you lost."

There's some kind of magic in the way this makes Ezio's broken world whole again.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o

It's been haunting Shaun, this knowledge that Desmond knows something he doesn't. It's something important, he's certain, because otherwise Desmond wouldn't have been so insistent. There's just something he knows that Shaun doesn't, and maybe Desmond's realized that nothing is worth knowing until something's done with it. Maybe he doesn't think Shaun is capable of anything like that.

"It's still raining. It's always fucking raining." Desmond stands at the window, unmoving with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You can calculate the percentage of time that it's actually raining," Shaun says, still watching Desmond from his desk, "the chance per hour, the diurnal variation in quantity, the peaks and troughs by time of day, intensity-"

"But who the hell cares?" Desmond turns, leans his back against the window, "I mean, even then, it'll still be raining. And sure, you could, like, plan your day around it, but who wants to go anywhere when it's raining?" He says this all casually, this miniscule reminder that he is capable of using what Shaun knows. Shaun might be fascinated by the data, but Desmond would use it to plan. Shaun hates that even tiny, stupid little applications like this irritate him. That he's wrapped up in data while Desmond can arrange it all into reality.

That's what it all comes down to, of course. Shaun has never been capable of making anything happen.

Desmond is still staring out the window when Shaun goes over to tack something to the bulletin board beside it. Shaun stares at the layout of the building, the architectural patterns he can put a name to and the designs he can identify as belonging to an architect, and all he sees is Desmond navigating the corridors and choosing a path to achieve a goal.

Suddenly, it's more than he can bear.

"You know what?" Shaun turns on Desmond suddenly, who looks up at him with an expression of mild surprise, "I don't  _care_ that you know something I don't, you know that? And I know you're always the one that does something with what you know, but it's not like _I'm_ completely  _incapable_ of that too!" Desmond just blinks at him, tries to form words and gives up. "I'm not so impressed by what you can do with everything I tell you that it made me fall in love with you."

"Oh." Desmond says nothing else, does nothing. It's the first time in memory that Desmond hasn't known what to do with something Shaun's told him. "You're definitely not?" he asks, this steeled tone that is probably meant to sound indifferent. "Because. You know. I guess that makes sense." Desmond stares determinedly out the window, trailing his fingers through the fog on the window pane. The streaks his fingertips leave look like a drowning man has been clawing at the window, desperate for breath, even as Desmond moves slowly, so slow. "You probably- it's fucking stupid, I bet you already know I had- have- a thing for you, because- I thought, it's stupid, it really is, I thought you knew because I thought you know- know everything, and that… you were pretending you didn't. So." He shakes his head, hunches his shoulders slightly, "I'm probably really transparent, like you're not."

Something feels different between them, and maybe it's the fact that Desmond has just handed Shaun information like it's something infinitely valuable, waiting for Shaun to  _do_ something with it.

Shaun does.

He pulls Desmond to him and crushes their lips together, and it's shock until it's natural, when breathing the same breath makes it feel like they've been doing it wrong their entire lives, that this is what everything has been supposed to feel like. Desmond stays close even when they part, looks at Shaun with confused, delighted eyes.

"I've been wanting to do that," Desmond says quietly, "I just didn't know how." He looks at Shaun, not like Shaun knows everything, but like he can  _do_ anything, and Shaun's never known how that's felt before. It's like how Desmond somehow knew just what to say, even when he couldn't do anything.

"It doesn't matter," Shaun says, because it doesn't anymore. Not now that they can complete each other, that between them there's everything they need, that between what they are together, there's everything they could ever want. Between them, the whole world is more than possible. Knowing that is world-encompassing. With everything there is to discover, the world at their fingertips and magic-like science guiding them anywhere, they have found something else.

This understanding, this learning a lover, is old world magic.

Nothing could ever mean more.

 


End file.
